


Entente

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-11
Updated: 2015-06-11
Packaged: 2018-04-03 21:49:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4116106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account





	Entente

It is dark in here. Why is it dark? The lights are off. Why are the lights off? They don't want me to see. _Who's they?_ Danger: 15/20. Unknown, unknown means danger. Dark room, lights off, someone doesn't want to be seen. Who is someone? Who could it possibly be? _Wait... where am I?_ Dark room. _No, before that. Focus._ Focus! Before this room. Before now. “Hello, Sherlock,” a voice lulls, dragging me out of my mind. Deep, a man's voice, Irish. _Irish? Who do I know that's Irish?_ Man, an enemy? A friend?

Breathe. “H-hello.” Voice broken, mouth dry, haven't been salivating. _Why?_ Breathe. Focus. “Who are you?” I try.

“Jim Moriarty. Hi,” his voice is sickeningly sweet. He flicks on a light. _Brown hair, eyes, short stature, expensive suit._ He sits down on a chair across from me. I am on the floor. Surroundings; concrete walls, floor. Fluorescent lights. _Warehouse? How cliched._ His arms go to the armrests and his fingers tap on the ends of them. He smiles brightly at me.

“Hi.” I sit up. “Moriarty.”

He pats his lap. “Wanna sit up here with daddy?”

I scoff gently. “I'd rather sit on hot coals.”

“That can be arranged.” He gives another dangerous smile at me. I sigh. He's not serious. _Right?_ Of course he's not serious. He holds out a hand and sits patiently until I take it. His palm is sweaty and very warm. My fingers trail up his wrist to check his pulse. Faster. He pulls me into a gentle kiss. His mouth is open, and he leads with his tongue. It touches my lip and rubs along the edges of my own tongue. It would be incredibly arousing, if it weren't so horribly disgusting. He moans quietly as he pulls away.

Moriarty leads me out of the room. The hallway is Hostels-esque. The same as any idiotically plain horror movie. The flickering lights, no windows, no doors; just plain walls with doorway-sized holes along it. We walk down the corridor, passing each of the rooms. They're all dimly lit, a bed similar to a hospital bed. At the end of the corridor, there is an actual, genuine door. It's a dark wood, metal, _iron_ , accessories and latch that holds it firmly in place. He pulls a small key from his pocket and opens the door. He leads me into the room. _Dark, chair in left corner, bed? Maybe. Same shape._ He turns the light on. Couch. _Damn it._ He pushes me down on the couch, and sits down next to me. “Now, you and I,” he hums, “have some business to discuss. You see, I have been rather naughty.” _Expensive suits, warehouse, 'naughty'. Criminal. Be wary._ “And I've been making too few mistakes. I figure, I continue on the path that I'm on, you and I would never meet; you'd never catch me.” I snort derisively. “Oh, now,” he pouts. “Don't be like that, Sherly.” He slides next to me, so our thighs are touching and puts an arm around my shoulders.

“What do you expect from this, _James_?” I ask, turning to face him, and bringing one leg up to tuck into my lap.

“What? You mean, who. I expect you. You'll be my client.”

“Being your client implies that you have anything to offer that I'd want.”

“You want the cases I provide you with.”

“And you'd give me this in exchange for what?”

“Your ensured silence. I give you my puzzles, and my name never crosses your lips. There will be someone to frame in each puzzle.”

“And people will keep dying.”

“Yes.” He smiles and runs a hand through my hair. “People die all the time, Sherlock. Now. Do you accept?”


End file.
